


we don’t sell snacks like you here

by carryyourownbanner



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Accidental First Date, College AU, M/M, Pre-Relationship, fast food worker au, grantaire’s smitten even before he meets him, thank you marius very cool
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-01
Updated: 2019-11-01
Packaged: 2021-01-16 01:22:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21262790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carryyourownbanner/pseuds/carryyourownbanner
Summary: grantaire’s roommates work at a fast food place- they think he’d get along well with their coworker, enjolras.don’t beat me for the title I’m begging you





	we don’t sell snacks like you here

**Author's Note:**

  * For [a b i g a i l](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=a+b+i+g+a+i+l).

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By the eighth shirt he tried on, Grantaire’s arms were sore, his heartbeat erratic, and his roommate, Courfeyrac, waiting outside his bedroom door, exasperated.

The green v-neck is tossed to the floor, and he eyes himself scrutinizingly in the mirror. He’s learned to ignore the stretch marks, and the hair on his chest covers up unseemly blotches and freckles that cover his chest and shoulders. His eyes wander over his arms and neck, and- god, how he avoids looking himself in the eyes. He’s not a total brute, he did shave, but the stubble’s creeping back in and the tufts of curls between his ears and his cheekbones are insistent and the rest of his hair is a forsaken mess he doesn’t dare try to tame any further for fear of making it static. At least his black jeans are a constant- he’s young and fit and, if he looks at his hips and waist alone, he gets a certain edge of confidence.

Not that, uh, the guy he’s meeting would be staring at his crotch anyway.

Courfeyrac knocks at the door.

“We’re gonna be late to dinner,” he calls. “Marius is gonna be late for work,” he corrects a second later, and Grantaire can imagine the frown of indignation on the latter’s face that would’ve prompted the reassessment. ”Does the green one work? Please tell me the green one works.”

Grantaire huffs. “No,” he returns, anxiety spiking in his chest. If only he could relax, it’s not a big deal, it’s just that this guy sounds so smart and pretty and sweet that he might just fall apart at the sentence ‘and do you want fries with that?’ falling from his lips. “I’ll try one more. Get off my back.”

Courfeyrac audibly groans. “I’m starting the car. Marius is jumpy.”

“Alright. I told you, I’ll be out in a second. I call shotgun.”

“Sure. Yo! Marius! Put your hat back on- I don’t care if it makes you look ridiculous, it’s part of your uniform. Alicia yells at me when you-“

“Courf. I can handle her. I’m just the ice cream guy.”

“And I’m just the driver!”

Grantaire ignores them and takes a dark blue t-shirt off a hanger and pulls it on. It’s not enough, though, so he takes a well-worn denim jacket down too on a whim and dons it. He doesn’t let himself linger at the mirror too long, for fear of changing his mind.

He throws his wallet and keys into his pocket, knowing full well Courfeyrac wasn’t going to let him pay. He’d just gotten laid off from his job as a package handler, working 18 hours a week, two weeks ago, and between classes and homework and job-searching, Grantaire hasn’t slept in years. It’s a wonder he has money to spend, let alone the brain power to remember what his PIN number is and call the bank back about his questionably flux account balance.

Which reminds him-

“Please tell me I don’t look like a trash panda,” he tells Marius as soon as he leaves his bedroom. “How bad are the circles?”

The ginger boy stares. “Uh- no worse than usual? Calm down, Enjolras isn’t that bad. If he seems snappy, it’s just because he’s a tired fast food worker making minimum wage.”

“I felt that.”

“Perfect. You already have so much in common,” he jokes. “Come on, my phone’s going off in my pocket and I don’t gotta check it to know it’s Courf.”

Marius walks out the door and Grantaire follows, and the latter locks the door behind the both of them. The sun feels far too warm for an afternoon in late October, and Grantaire’s counting his blessings, even as he’s ushered into the backseat despite calling shotgun. He sits in the middle.

“Sorry. Rat bastard men sit in the back.”

“Why aren’t you back here, then?”

“Because I’m not a rat bastard man.”

Grantaire snorts wryly and slips his phone from his pocket. From the apartment to Red’s is only a ten minute drive, but he can entertain himself in the meantime anyway. Distract, rather, he thinks- he’s never been this anxious about meeting a guy. It’s not even a blind date- he’s just going out to dinner with his friends where one of them and this guy just happen to work.

Enjolras.

He doesn’t really remember the first time Marius mentioned him, probably because he wasn’t paying attention. It had to have only been a few weeks ago, when Marius started working the same evening shift- Grantaire only noticed when Marius came back after a shift laughing through his exhaustion over a picture of Enjolras covered in ketchup, staring at the camera with the cutest glare on his face Grantaire’s ever seen. He hadn’t even thought a glare could be cute.

Courf had taken out his earbuds for a second just to make fun of him. “You do know that’s ketchup, right? Not blood. No need to drool, you sadist.”

So Grantaire’s mouth closed. He called it a night an hour afterwards.

As time went on Marius seemed to talk about Enjolras more to Grantaire specifically.

“Oh, he’s not really into fiction, but he loves tearing the classics to pieces. Fitzgerald, Hemingway, Golding- seems to like Tolstoy, though. Dickens was tonight’s victim.”

“He was hatless last night because his cat stole it and hid it. Apparently, Bastille does that all the time. Once he came in without socks for the same reason.”

“He’s a liberal arts major. He has this student activist group, and me and Courf were thinking about helping out. Wanna come?”

(The answer had been maybe, and, after hearing a more detailed description, a no.)

“I was working at the window last night, and this old couple drives by, and apparently I was talking too fast, because they said so, in this slow, country accent, and apparently if I’m ‘gonna come down here and be a hillbilly,’ I gotta talk ‘real slow.’ I’m still not sure it even happened,” Marius is relaying when he comes back down to earth. “But I was not about to list every single thing that came on the burger real slow. I have a jumbo burger, no mustard, with pickles, sautéed onions, ketchup, cheese, whatever, with fries, and I’m gonna say it fast. I’ve got work to do.”

Grantaire grunts in acknowledgment. “You only talk fast ‘cause you’re nervous. It’s no time-saving pyramid scheme, Pontmercy.” He smirks wickedly at him through the rearview. “Maybe you should take their advice.”

“Maybe you should be quiet before I don’t introduce the two of you at all,” Marius returns, and Courfeyrac ‘ooh’s.

“Fine. I’ll be nice. So nice you’ll forget I broke the toaster last week.”

“Nuh-uh. That’s unforgivable, ‘Taire.”

“You were zoning out a second ago,” Courfeyrac quips, turning briefly to look at Grantaire again. “What’s on your mind?”

“Probably nerves,” Marius answers before he can even register he’s been asked a question.

“No. I’m just thinking about what you’ve told me.”

Courfeyrac eyes him. “Don’t start that.”

“What?”

“Your... cynicism. You’re putting yourself down before you’ve even gotten a foot in the door. I’ve met Enjolras, he’s not a bad guy. I call him an extroverted introvert. He knows about you, you know about him- through mutual friends. Don’t stress, R. Just because you’re in love with him doesn’t mean he knows that.”

Grantaire rolls his eyes. “Fine. Fine. What would you have me say instead? That surely this man who’s the human incarnation of the sun will click immediately with me? I’d rather eat rotting grapes.”

“Why?”

“I try to be realistic.”

“You’re not realistic, you’re pessimistic,” Marius butts in. “You’re single, he’s single. Who knows? You might get his number. And if not, it’s not like we can’t get you two together another time. Enj and I are good friends, so it wouldn’t be out of the ordinary if I decided to ask him to come along.”

Grantaire just huffs. “Sure. Just drive, Mario.”

“Marius.”

“Uh-huh.”

When they finally get there, he tries to act as natural as possible when he gets out of the car and throws the door shut. He scrolls through his notifications, three days old, just to give the impression of having something better to do than think of what it would be like to see him in the flesh.

He has so many questions Marius hasn’t yet supplied the answers to.

Is he tall or short? The picture doesn’t tell him that. What does he sound like, fired up about impudent customers in the dining room? Does he sound mellow, like Marius, or sarcastic like Courfeyrac? He’s Enjolras. He’s got to have his own brand of indignation altogether.

They order from a woman who’s soon identified as someone named Amélie by Courfeyrac.

“Lucky you, not working tonight,” she teases. “Marius, get back here, we need you at the window. Anyway, here’s your receipt, number 246. They’ll call when your order’s ready.”

Grantaire takes the receipt and puts his hands in his jean pockets before walking behind Courfeyrac.

The place has a retro theme to it, with Elvis and vintage Coca-Cola ads taking up the majority of the wall space. There’s a large portrait of an old, old man- presumably the founder of the restaurant- and it’s all so bright. The counter the soda fountain’s on is adorned with classy gold star decals, and the floor’s got an alternating green, white, yellow, red tile pattern- they didn’t do a terrible job of resurrecting the era, he supposes. Either way, the placement of a vintage radio in place of a napkin holder at the table Courfeyrac elects to sit at makes him roll his eyes.

“That’s gotta be impossible to clean.”

“Oh, it is.”

“It’s so impractical.”

“Here we go again. Do treat me.”

Grantaire snorts and gets up with a start when their number’s called. He accepts the order with a grateful smile. He’s starving, now that it’s in his hands.

Enjolras’s shift starts at 6; it’s roughly 5:30, give or take a few minutes. He figures that’s enough time to eat before Enjolras gets here and sees him with half the chili dog on his face rather than down his gullet.

Courfeyrac is smirking when he gets back to the table.

“Head in the clouds much?”

“I’m thinking. Can’t I think?”

“No. Not allowed. It’ll stress you out. Go get some ketchup, will you? Fries here are shit without it.”

Grantaire groans and stands back up, walking over to the condiments counter. He gets a small cup and starts pumping ketchup into it, wrinkling his nose at the strength of the smell. Suddenly, at his left, there’s a rushed mass of a black t-shirt, the smell of grease, and blonde hair in a tight bun at the base of the neck.

“Sorry,” he says (Grantaire’s now had time to register that it’s a he- it’s Enjolras, fuck-), diving for the napkins. He’s pressed against Grantaire’s shoulder for a solid four seconds before Grantaire has the sense to move out of his way. He’s about to dash away, when he pauses. A look of recognition flashes across his face.

“You’re Grantaire,” he says quickly, smiling slightly. “Sorry, I’ll be right back- there’s ketchup on your jacket, here.” He shoves a napkin towards him before practically zooming away. Some frazzled curls escape his strict imprisonment as he goes, and they settle cutely by his ears. Grantaire almost forgets to clean the ketchup off his jacket even when he disappears from sight, and when he does remember, he sits down- only to be sent back by a cackling Courfeyrac to get the ketchup he left on the counter.

“I saw him.”

“I gleaned,” Courfeyrac says, still chuckling. “Look, there he is again.” His friend’s pointing at him, sure enough, with Marius beside him, tray in hand. His hat’s askew. They’re talking- Grantaire can’t tell what they’re saying. Marius gestured over to Grantaire, taking the tray from him despite Enjolras’s visible protest, and whisks him away. “I got it,” Grantaire can see Marius mouth, at least.

And then Enjolras is rolling his eyes and walking towards them, and Grantaire can’t stop smiling. Courfeyrac pats his hand sympathetically.

“Hi,” the blonde says, finally, when he reaches them, looking irritated and huffy but grinning at Courf nonetheless. “So this is why you refused to cover my shift tonight?” He gestures at Grantaire with a tilt of his head, and the latter flushes red.

“Oh, don’t sound so behooved. What else would you be doing tonight?”

“Studying. Rallying. The usual.”

“Bullshit. You’d be sleeping.”

Enjolras snickers. “You’re not wrong. It’s been a long week.” He wipes his forehead with the back of his hand. He sits down beside Courfeyrac. “Anyway- Grantaire. I’m Enjolras.”

He can’t help but smirk. “Says so on your name tag.” He wants to pat himself on the back for making Enjolras flush pink. “I already knew who you are. Marius and Courf told me. Nice to meet you.” He offers a hand for a handshake. It’s met in the middle, elbows hovering precariously over a basket of fries, but Grantaire perceives that Enjolras’s grip lingers longer than necessary. That, and his piercing blue gaze.

“Nice to meet you too. Speaking of Marius, he won’t let me work until he thinks I’ve met you ‘sufficiently’, whatever that means. I’m sorry if I sound ungrateful- I just can’t sit still, you know?”

Grantaire does. “It’s fine. You think he’ll be satisfied if I give you my number?”

Courfeyrac snickers beside Enjolras, but he’s quiet enough and Enjolras doesn’t notice.

“Sure,” he says, his phone out of his pocket in an instant. “Ready.”

Grantaire relays the digits. Enjolras’s fingers move in a flurry across his screen, and he sees Courfeyrac side-eyeing him with his arms crossed. Enjolras smiles up at Grantaire, and he feels his phone buzz on the table. He picks it up. The message reads simply ‘hello :),” and yet it still sends the butterflies fluttering.

“You sure you have to get back to work?”

Enjolras exhales softly with amusement. “Unfortunately. I’ll just-“

Courfeyrac stands suddenly. “Nope. Out of my way, Enjolras. Give me your hat.”

“Wh- you are not taking my shift. Adrienne’ll whip me.”

“She will not.”

“You’re not dressed for the dining room.”

“I think the customers’ll live. Gimme it.”

Reluctantly, Enjolras surrenders his hat, itching the top of his head as soon as he’s relieved from its weight. His hair looks even fluffier and curlier and he looks just that much more relaxed, and it seems to Grantaire that he visibly shifts from work mode to whatever this was.

“Guess it’s you and me, then,” he says, pushing the empty baskets of food aside. He scratches the back of his neck, then stretching. “You look nice. Better than me, anyway. Don’t tell me- I smell like kitchen grease.”

Grantaire smiles lightly. “Not gonna lie to you, chief, you do. The rest makes up for it.”

Enjolras quirks an eyebrow. “Oh?” he says, taking what Grantaire assumes is a pin out of his hair, then a hair tie, and blonde curls settle over his shoulders. He folds his hands below his chin and puts his elbows on the table, Grantaire watching all the while with great interest. “You flatter me. Marius told me I’d like you.”

“Did he now?”

“Oh, yes. His and Courf’s roommate is quite a celebrity around here,” he says, and Grantaire honestly can’t tell if he’s joking. “How much of it’s true? Do you paint?”

Grantaire doesn’t know how to react. Enjolras seems genuinely interested, and it’s enough to have him tongue-tied.

“I- I do.”

“People?”

“Yes. I’m actually shit at making anything else- but I’m working on it. What- uh- what do you do for fun?”

“I write. Drafts, mainly, not like- journaling or fiction or anything. I read. I like psychology, and politics.”

It’s all Grantaire can do not to just ogle the enigma of a man before him. “Psychology?”

“I read it for fun, mostly.”

“What else do you do for ‘fun’?”

Enjolras gives him a wry look. “I taught myself ASL. It’s really ableist that it’s not required learning, anyhow.”

Still he stares. “You taught yourself a language for fun?”

“Yeah. I don’t know, a lot of it was obligation. But it was fine. Fun, even. Made it easier to finish.”

“Oh? I mean, I guess my Spanish classes in high school weren’t that bad. It was kinda fun, sometimes. What else do you speak- you know, besides English?”

Enjolras bites his lip. “Um- well, French, and enough Spanish to get by listening.”

“French?”

He blinks at him. “You don’t know French? You have a French name.”

Grantaire scratches at his stubble. “Yeah, yeah, I know. I never really found the time.”

“You should let me teach you some sometime, Grantaire.”

“I might just take you up on that.”

They talk for a surprisingly long time- which is good, considering Marius doesn’t get off until ten-thirty and he’s his ride. He and Courf could go home, but...

With his lively conversation partner across the table from him, he’s not keen on going anywhere.

They talk about just about anything and everything. They share queer headcanons about beloved childhood characters (“Frog and Toad were definitely gay, and Mulan’s queer, change my mind”), they debate the ethics of all the Elvis worship on the walls around them (“it’s just weird, R”), swap memes for a good thirty minutes- and Marius comes over, wearing a bemused expression.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Just the first time I’ve ever seen Enj act like a college student. Keep up the good work, ‘Taire.”

Grantaire laughs. “Oh? What’re you usually like, Enjolras?”

Enjolras rolls his eyes. “I’m the same.”

“Nah,” Marius insists. “He’s all... stern.”

“Resting bitch face?” Grantaire suggests.

“Hey!” the blonde cuts in. “I do not have a resting bitch face. Marius, back me up.”

“He’s right, actually. I... wouldn’t describe it like that, but I suppose it’s fitting. But you don’t look like that now,” he amends, quickly, at a playful glare from the blonde. “Like Grantaire said.”

“‘Like Grantaire said’,” Enjolras mocks, and it’s adorable. “Maybe that’s not my resting face. Maybe I choose to look like that. I’m done with the ‘you’re so much prettier when you smile!’ bullshit.”

Grantaire snorts. “So your alternative is ‘I hate you all, goodnight’?”

“No- well, here, yeah, unless they aren’t throwing fries and napkins on the floor like it’s no big deal. I don’t mind it, I just don’t like smelling like food.”

“Unfortunate, because you’re a snack.” It’s out of Grantaire’s mouth before he can think twice, and Marius is wheezing. Enjolras, surprisingly, isn’t trying to kill him with a look- he is, however, looking at him with what’s becoming a signature raised eyebrow and pursed lips.

“A snack?”

“...yes. That is what I said, yes. You look like a snack.”

He looks like he’s fighting a smile. “As much as I love being called a Triscuit,” he says, folding his hands on the table, “I think you can do better than ‘snack’.”

“Bit narcissistic?” Marius teases, before Enjolras waves him off. He obeys- more at the sound of (who Grantaire assumes is) his boss yelling at him to get back to work. Enjolras watches him go until he seems content.

“Not narcissistic,” Enjolras corrects, for Grantaire’s ears. “Just interested.”

The corner of Grantaire’s mouth quirks up into a smile, and Enjolras mirrors him in a surprising gesture. “In what I have to say? That’s a first. Surprised Marius and Courf haven’t kicked me out yet, honestly, with how much bullshit I sp-“

“Not in what you have to say. Par toi, crétin.”

Grantaire’s face goes hot. “I don’t speak Italian, Apollo,” he shoots back in an attempt at jest, but the fact that his tongue isn’t working isn’t helping. He doesn’t know French, sure, but he knows enough to know-

“Don’t make me change my mind. You know damn well what language that was,” Enjolras chastises. “I like the way you talk. It’s like- kind of like you like the sound of your own voice, maybe, and maybe like you should think a bit more before you speak, but that can always work in your favor, R.”

“Woah. Thanks.”

“Don’t be so salty. I’m not done. You’re funny. I like talking to you because- I mean, I guess I don’t know. I can make assumptions, but I can’t know your motivations unless you tell me.”

“My motivations?”

“You like me,” he says, flatly, like he’s explaining that the Earth goes around the sun. Grantaire begins to try and sputter an explanation, but he’s going on. “I know that much. I think I like talking to you because you... I don’t know. I’ve surrounded myself with people who seem to think a lot like me, you know, in a general, cognitive sense- not politics or whatever. I like the way you talk, so I’d assume I like the way you think. You might do with a bit more optimism now and then, though.”

“Why?”

“Were you optimistic about this evening?”

“Well- I was, but only because I wanted to be. It’s been a minute since I’ve dated and you sounded splendid-“

“There. It’s all conscious, Grantaire. There’s something lacking in your life, so you make attempts to fix it- or you do so for your friends- and you have to have the brightest outlook possible- I don’t understand how you couldn’t, coming from wherever the undesirable lies.”

“It’s hard, sometimes.”

Enjolras smiles softly. “I love philosophical discussions at fast food gigs, and I really like you, but maybe we should pick this up later. In the meantime... would you want some ice cream?”

He brightens. “Oh?”

“Order one scoop. I’ll bully Courf into giving you... one... scoop.”

“How big is this scoop?”

“Bigger than it should be. Courf and I do it all the time, don’t worry. Come on,” he says, standing up and offering his hand. Grantaire takes it and stands, trying not to shake.

He doesn’t let go.

Courfeyrac doesn’t say a word when they order their ice cream, but the look in his eyes is plenty to go by. He winks at Grantaire; he rolls his eyes.

“Might as well take him home with you,” Courfeyrac says to Enjolras, shaking with silent laughter. “Never took you for much of a flirt.”

The blonde huffs. “I’m not incapable of it, Courf. Your friend is quite worth my efforts, anyway.”

Grantaire smiles.

“Oh, he was ‘worth your efforts’ from the moment I mentioned him.”

He tries not to laugh an Enjolras’s furious blush and sputter of indignity.

“Don’t worry, my dear, I was looking forward to you, too,” he admits, chuckling. “Courf, get us the ice cream and stop teasing him.”

“But it’s so fun!” he protests, scooping a giant chunk into each cup. “Here. You two enjoy yourselves. And you know, Enjolras, we’ve got a couch I’m sure Grantaire would be more than happy to crash on at our place.”

“Hey!”

“You wouldn’t make him sleep on the couch, would you?”

“Maybe. Depends.”

“You’re a bastard,” he retorts.

“Still interested, though?”

Enjolras side-eyes him playfully, spoon dipping into the ice cream. “Maybe. Just maybe.”

Oh, he was. He most definitely was.


End file.
